


A Light to Burn All the Empires

by LookingForDroids



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon Timeline, F/F, Ficlet, Hate at First Sight, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rating is for Damara being Damara, Specifically referring to the Condesce/Psii, Which is to say: Damara being gross and offensive because what else does she have at this point?, not a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookingForDroids/pseuds/LookingForDroids
Summary: The Handmaid claims her final reward.
Relationships: The Condesce/The Handmaid (Homestuck)
Kudos: 3





	A Light to Burn All the Empires

It’s been a while since Damara gave a shit about anything. 

She used to. She knows that much, though it’s harder to say when exactly shit stopped being a thing that was given. She has vague memories of a time when what her first master thought of her actually mattered, because she was a kid and she was an idiot, and she believed for a while that fulfilling her duties well enough might be sufficient to force a change in the way he saw her. After that, she wanted to hurt him, and tried, and sometimes succeeded in some pathetic way before reality clamped down again, and when that shitty wiggler phase finally passed, she mostly just wanted a fucking break. There’s only one thing she wants now, though. She’s earned it. She’s going to claim it, and it’s fitting that the only way to do that is to wrest her reward from the one other troll in this universe still alive.

 _And there she stands in all her glory,_ Damara thinks, too bored to even bother with disdain. Her Imperious Condescension, alone on the deck of her floating necropolis and already looking around like everything here is hers, present company included. Her jewelry gleams in the light of the green moon, and her voice is mad and fragile with joy as she says, “So, beach, you ready to show some respect for your replaicement?”

“Ready to respect my bulge in your ass,” Damara says, and the Condesce hisses a laugh, not even offended. Her eyes are fixed on Damara, who takes a moment to size her up in turn: the glittering smile to match her glittering rows of bracelets, the hips that move in a dangerous sway and hair that seems to twist in the air of its own accord, flowing behind her like ink in water. She’s old, though she doesn’t look it. Damara wonders if she ever gets tired.

If she hasn’t yet, she will, but that is the very definition of not Damara’s fucking problem. There’s no such thing as Damara’s problem any longer, and even if she had pity left to spare, which she doesn’t, there’s no point wasting it on _her._ And yet – it shouldn’t matter, because nothing does, but they’re two of a kind, Demoness and dictator, and there’s a fucked up solidarity in that. Like, _hey, I hear you’ve got conquered worlds strung up like rhinestones on your tacky jewelry and the blood of billions painting your claws. Nice. Keep it up for another millennium or two, step up your game a little, and you might even catch up with me._

Hell, maybe she will. Pity there will only be one troll left alive to see it.

Damara smiles wide, draws her needles and feels the power crackle along them, filling the air with gold and violet sparks. The Condesce takes a step closer, and though she holds her trident with murderous ease, an expression passes across her face that isn’t an Empress’s contempt, or even a conqueror’s greed. Something open, Damara thinks. Something caught between relief and yearning, a weakness hidden quick but not quick enough to escape someone who can spin seconds out to centuries. 

Well, it gets lonely out there in space with nothing but the dried-out husk of a Helmsman to keep you company. Not great conversation, probably, not that he ever was. Damara wonders whether Her Imperious Condescension ever fucked him after he was dead, and isn’t _that_ a fun thing to contemplate? So she asks, and in the fraction of an instant before the Condesce lunges, her face twists with the violence of an injured animal, which is kind of an answer, maybe. Damara lets her get close enough for those tendrils of hair to brush her skin, and steps to the side just late enough to let the points of a trident scrape her ribs. The pain is sudden and searing, the blood hot as it runs down her side, and as she twists to face the enemy behind her, she can hear herself laughing. The Condesce bares razor teeth in her direction, smile or snarl or both, and for the first time in centuries, there’s more than one thing she wants. 

Whatever. She’s been lonely too. 

She ducks beneath the next attack, spins again and makes an obscene gesture with both her needles and her fist, and she’s laughing still, light on her feet and feeling untouchable. She’ll make the Condesce bleed before this is through, cover the deck in rust and fuchsia, maybe feel those teeth sink into her shoulder or her throat. It will hurt like a bitch, and then it will be over, and she’ll be free. Not yet, though. She’s got a little more heat left in her veins than she’d thought, a little more rage than she remembers, and this timeline is hers until the end she chooses. She lifts her needles in challenge and invitation, and tilts her head back, beckoning. 

She’s earned this. She’s going to enjoy it.


End file.
